The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (7 page)

Then she was free of the chamber and returning east, moving through the air at great speed until the clouds opened to reveal a large island far below her. She saw a palace on top of a hill overlooking the main harbour, and as her mind’s eye descended to enter its empty halls she wondered what the significance of the island was and why Apollo had brought her here. Then a vision of a great warrior appeared, dressed in magnificent armour that she had seen once before from the walls of Troy. The helmet was gold with a red plume, the breastplate shaped in the perfect likeness of a man’s torso, and the shield had seven concentric circles filled with figures that moved as if alive. The armour had been made by Hephaistos, the smith-god, for Achilles. But Achilles was dead, his ashes buried beneath a barrow on the plains of Ilium. And then she understood the meaning of the revelation. The warrior in the armour was to take Achilles’s place on the battlefield; without him, the Greeks would return home defeated.

She turned from the terrible vision and found herself crossing the Aegean once more, hurtling back to Ilium and the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. But the oracles of Troy’s doom were not yet over. As she hung over the circle of plane trees, expecting at any moment to be reunited with her physical self, she looked across the Scamander to the great city with its high walls and towers and its gates that had withstood the might of Agamemnon’s army for ten years. And then the sloped battlements began to shake and crumble. The towers fell and the gates were torn from their mountings, while in the city behind the buildings caved in on themselves in clouds of dust. People were running everywhere, their screams unheard by her sealed ears as they were crushed by falling stones or disappeared into the chasms that were opening beneath their feet. Cassandra wanted to cry out in terror but was unable to make a sound, as the mound that Troy was built on started to rise up, like a monstrous subterranean creature waking from centuries of slumber, destroying the city on its back as it came to life. And as Troy disintegrated and was gone, all that remained was the mound – higher and blacker and smoother than Cassandra had ever known it before, and yet strangely familiar. It was then that she recognised it. The Palladium, the wooden effigy that stood in the temple of Athena in the citadel of Pergamos. Legend said that it was an image of Athena’s friend, Pallas, whom the goddess had accidentally killed. It had fallen from heaven when the city was being built and had landed in the unfinished temple, a sign of the goddess’s divine protection. Without it, Troy was doomed to fall.

As the meaning of the third oracle became clear to her the vision faded and the night grew suddenly dark, consuming the light of the moon and the stars until nothing was left but stifling blackness. Panic threatened for a moment, then Cassandra saw tall grey pillars emerge from the darkness on every side of her. Briefly she thought she had returned to her body in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, but the absence of any of her other senses quickly told her she was still dreaming.

Something
was
different, though.

She could not feel the quickness in her breathing or the rapid beat of her heart, but she knew she was afraid. Something terrible had happened. She looked up and saw the figure of a woman above her, seated on a stone plinth with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. The crude, stern features of her helmeted head were fixed in a cold gaze as Cassandra knelt at her feet with her hands raised imploringly to the statue of the goddess. She recognised the inside of the temple of Athena, but Apollo was no longer showing her the tasks the Greeks would need to perform to conquer Troy. This was the future,
her
future. Outside, though she could neither hear the flames nor smell the burning, she knew there was fire on the streets of Pergamos. People were fleeing in terror and soldiers were running among them, though whether they were Trojan or Greek she could not tell. Time blurred and she sensed herself curled up in fear at the feet of the statue, when the temple doors were flung open and the sounds of battle burst in. The once-peaceful chamber now echoed with the clash of bronze, followed by the screams of women and children in pain. Rough hands pulled at Cassandra, turning her over to stare into the eyes of a small man with a snarling, angry face. Coiled about his shoulders was a brown snake that hissed in defiance at the unfamiliar temple. The soldier’s eyes fell upon Cassandra and his malicious look transformed to one of sneering lust. She looked away and he slapped her hard, before seizing her clothes and tearing them from her. She was conscious of her naked breasts and the terrifying strength of the man as she tried to fight him. Then he hit her and her resistance ceased. She fell back to the floor beneath his heavy body, his leather armour doubtless cold and hard against her soft skin. He entered her roughly and forcefully, without any reverence for the purity she had preserved for so long. Suddenly her nostrils were filled with the smell of blood and, arching her back on the rough flagstones, she screamed.

The sound shattered the silence that had enclosed her senses and tore through the temple like a blast of wind, rustling the leaves overhead and spilling silver scales of moonlight across the ground. With a rush like water filling a clay jar, she felt the physical sensations of sound, smell, touch and taste pouring back into her, trapping her consciousness once more with the clumsy heaviness of the corporeal world. Her thin, underdeveloped body felt as if it was encased in bronze armour, each small movement suddenly cumbersome and ungainly; her ears were momentarily sharp, filling her head with the sound of the wind and the roar of the sea, and the nerve endings in her skin reported every detail of the flagstoned floor, while screaming at her with the coldness of it. Her mouth was saturated with the taste of blood. The smell of it – mingled with the odour of soil and bark and the different aromas from her own body – was so overpowering she thought she must be covered in it. Then, with a shock that sank straight to the pit of her stomach, she recalled the soldier in the temple and looked down to see that her dress had indeed been ripped open and there was blood over her neck and breasts. She placed a hand between her legs, dreading that she would find more blood, and when she felt nothing remembered, finally, that it had been a dream and the blood belonged to the snake she had beheaded. She relaxed, but only until she recalled that what she had seen had also been a vision of the future. And it was then she sensed she was being watched.

N
ISUS OF
D
ULICHIUM

P
enelope, queen of Ithaca, paced the earthen floor of the great hall. The flames from the circular hearth cast a crimson glow over the four central pillars and the circle of empty chairs where the Kerosia – the council of Ithacan elders – had sat earlier that day. The warm light pulsed against the lime-plastered walls, where it fought with the dense shadows for possession of the murals. The contest ebbed and flowed, revealing hints of the scenes depicted high up on the walls, of armoured men fighting and dying in battles of their own. Penelope, who had seen the murals almost everyday for the past twenty years, hardly even noticed them any more.

She reached an alcove in one of the walls – where a small effigy of the goddess Athena stood stiffly clutching her spear – then turned on her heel and retraced her steps towards the high-backed throne. The long wait was making her nervous. Though the palace was her home, in view of what she was planning to do she did not want to be noticed out of her own quarters so late at night. She reached the vacant throne, glanced at the double doors that led to the courtyard beyond, then turned again and headed back to the alcove. The nerves that tightened her stomach were a welcome distraction from the hole left by her loneliness. She had felt incomplete ever since Odysseus had sailed to Troy a decade before, but at least her son’s presence had comforted her; now that she had sent Telemachus to safety in Sparta, though, she was completely alone. The heart that had longed so painfully for her husband’s return now yearned to breaking point for her son.

And yet, as she reached the alcove again and looked down at the crudely carved face of Athena, she knew she could not afford to show weakness. She was a queen, and while her husband was away the burden of ruling Ithaca lay firmly upon her shoulders. As a woman, though, she could not rely on the strength of her arms, only the ability of her wits.

She turned and stared at the doors, willing them to open. Nothing happened and she continued pacing. She had other weapons, of course. She was tall and beautiful and could use these assets to her benefit, an art that her cousin Helen had developed to perfection – at terrible cost to the Greek and Trojan worlds. But Penelope had never been adept at playing that game. It went against her nature: as far as she was concerned men should only be flirted with for one reason, and
she
already had a husband. No, she thought, her needs would have to be dire if she were to resort to so base a method.

She reached the throne where none had sat since Odysseus’s departure and ran her hand over the carved wooden back. Her husband had left her in a strong position, with the support of the Kerosia and the people behind her, but he had also left a viper in the form of Eupeithes, the power-hungry merchant who had once tried to usurp the throne. By allowing him a seat on the Kerosia, Odysseus had gambled on the hope that giving him some power might placate his greater ambitions. He had also gambled on a prompt end to the war and a quick homecoming. This was despite the oracle he had once shared with his wife, that if he went to Troy he would not return for twenty years. He had never felt restricted by prophecies, though, and had promised to return to Ithaca before anything could threaten his kingdom. So far, he had been wrong. Now the viper had raised its head and struck its first blow.

A low howl of wind shook the doors, causing her to look up. Again, they did not open and she headed back towards the alcove. Eupeithes had bided his time, of course. It was even possible he had never intended to make a bid for power, but the length of Odysseus’s absence, combined with disillusionment among the nobility, had stirred his dormant ambitions. Either way, he had made his move now and suddenly, unexpectedly, the Kerosia was his to control – and only the king could overrule the council of elders. Having bought Polyctor’s loyalty years before, after Phronius’s accidental death – or murder, as most suspected – Eupeithes had been able to bargain for Oenops, another of his cronies, to take the old man’s place. That had left Nisus, Halitherses, Mentor and Laertes – Odysseus’s aged father – still loyal to the throne, but recent events had changed the balance again. While Halitherses had secretly sailed to the Peloponnese with Telemachus, taking Odysseus’s heir to safety in Sparta, an assassin had been caught in the boy’s empty room. Eupeithes was the obvious one to have ordered the prince’s death, but the assassin had sworn his employer was Nisus of Dulichium.

Penelope looked over her shoulder at the ring of chairs around the hearth. They were still draped with furs for the members of the Kerosia who had met that morning to discuss the allegation against Nisus. As the accused, Nisus was unable to take his own seat, and with Halitherses travelling to Sparta with Telemachus that had given the majority to Eupeithes. The verdict was almost a formality: Nisus was guilty of treason and had been sentenced to be executed the next day. What was more, Eupeithes had used the absence of Halitherses to have his own son, Antinous, voted on to the Kerosia as Nisus’s replacement. At a stroke, the Kerosia was now in Eupeithes’s hands and there was nothing Penelope could do about it.

The doors creaked open and a splash of weak moonlight cut a wedge across the dark floor. A cloaked figure paused in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before slipping into the hall. A second, shorter man followed him.

‘Who’s that?’ Penelope called, anxiously.

‘Penelope, it’s me.’

The tension eased from her muscles as she recognised Mentor’s voice.

‘You were longer than I expected,’ she said, moving from the shadows into the warm firelight. ‘Were you delayed?’

‘A little. The guard on the gates is one of the new men that replaced the reinforcements sent to Troy. I don’t know I can trust him, so Eumaeus and I found a way in over the palace wall.’

Mentor crossed the great hall and kissed Penelope on both cheeks. He was handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and hard, confident eyes. The stump where his right hand had been severed by a sword was cased in leather, and though the wound had prevented him from going to war at Odysseus’s side it had at least ensured Penelope his friendship and support in trying to preserve her husband’s kingdom at home. Beside him was a man with a red-brown face and a head of thick, curly hair. Eumaeus was a slave, but as loyal to Odysseus as anyone on the island.

‘What about Nisus’s guard?’ Mentor asked.

Penelope shook her head. ‘A Taphian.’

Eupeithes had a long association with the Taphians, old enemies of Ithaca, and had insisted a troop of the tall, ruthless spearmen be added to the palace guard.

‘Then we have to kill him,’ Mentor said, throwing his cloak aside to reveal the sword tucked into his belt. ‘We’ll take the body with us and dump it into the sea – at least then we can claim Nisus bought his loyalty and helped him to escape.’

‘Eupeithes will never believe that.’

‘It’ll seem the most likely explanation, and until he can disprove it he won’t be able to accuse anyone else. Are you still willing to draw the guard away from his post?’

Penelope nodded and crossed to a small door at the back of the great hall. The two men followed.

‘Wait either side of the door,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll make him follow me into the hall and then you can … do whatever is necessary.’

She pulled open the door and stepped into the long narrow passageway that skirted the great hall. It was dark but for two dying torches that hung at intervals along the walls. To her right was a corner that fed round to the rear of the palace and the stairs that led up to the sleeping quarters; to the right, the corridor stretched away into murky shadows, with several doorways on the right-hand wall that opened into storerooms. Nisus was locked in a room at the far end, where Penelope could just make out the figure of a spearman slumped against the wall. The sound of the door roused him from his slumber and he straightened up, watching Penelope as she approached.